


carve a little corner of the world, just for you and i

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [97]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Love, M/M, Recovery, newt is bad at communicating his feelings but that's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: things are better, now; still, though, it's painful at times, to see Newton suffer—but Hermann wouldn't trade it for the world





	carve a little corner of the world, just for you and i

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "K i just came across something that was like the most newt thing ever and thus the most newmann! Let me know what you think (and if it inspires you!) :"I laugh along but inside I know that it's true: Being in love is totally punk rock.""

Newt gets better.

Hermann thinks, darkly, that when you’ve hit rock-bottom—in this case, possession by genocidal aliens—there isn’t much way to go but up, unless you bring a shovel, which, thankfully, doesn’t seem to have happened. So; he _is _getting better.

But it is—_slow;_ painfully so, and Hermann can hardly bear to see the other’s frustration; _give it time,_ he wants to say, _you’ve got time now, love,_ but he doesn’t, because, well; Hermann has never been one to say what he feels, even now, so many years later.

“Come to dinner with me,” he says, instead; one of the days when Newton’s mood is particularly black; and Hermann can feel the impending breakdown; the blowout, fuse burning bright for a flashing second before Newt slumps like a marionette with its strings cut; eyes going dull. “You should get out of the apartment—fresh air is good for you.”

“Hah,” Newton says, flatly, “you just don’t want me to have a fit and destroy your stuff.”

“I don’t want you to hurt _yourself,_” Hermann counters, “which we both know is what will happen if you continue along this course.” It’s more earnest than he intends; the truth of it laid bare; he cannot allow Newton to run himself into the ground like this.

There’s a pause, the only noise the tap of the biologist’s nails against the counter. “Okay,” he says, finally, “but no crowds.”

“Of course,” Hermann agrees; ignores the flash of blue-white in the corner of his vision, the taste of iron in his mouth. It would not do for Newton to be overwhelmed—there’s a little hole-in-the-wall place not too far away that serves dumplings that, though likely not up to health code, is, to borrow Newt’s phrasing, “to die for.” “Do you want to put on something warmer?” he asks, instead of saying something too revealing, “it’s getting late—there’s a brisk breeze, too.”

Newt hums but doesn’t reply; he’s already drifted off into his head, eyes glazed over, even as his gaze remains locked with Hermann’s.

Hermann swallows thickly and fetches their coats, cane tight in his hand.

* * *

So; they sit at a table that’s got smoke-stains and coffee-rings and an ashtray in the middle; Hermann orders for them, and as they wait, Newt leans back in his chair, tilts his head back; sighs.

His hair is wet, still—he took a shower a few hours ago, but it’s thick enough that it’s still wet at the roots. A gust of wind makes him shiver, and without thought, Hermann leans forward; adjusts the borrowed sweater and zips the biologist’s jacket up. “You should’ve worn more,” he scolds before he realises what he’s just done and drops his hands.

“…yeah,” Newt says, slowly, and plays with the fake fur of the hood. “Um—”

Jut then, their food arrives, and with more zeal than Hermann’s seen from him in—_far too long,_ Newton grabs his single-use chopsticks and tries to split them apart; scowls when they split unevenly. “Great,” he grumbles, “now I’m going to get splinters.”

Hermann splits his own neatly and offers them up; doesn’t read too much into the flash of emotion on the other’s face before he takes them. “Thanks,” Newton says, and stares intently at the table. Hermann gets himself another pair and pours vinegar over his potstickers; offers the bottle to Newt silently.

Silence, he thinks, as they eat, is the worst of it, perhaps; because Newton is not a silent person—_was_ not a silent person, and the silence only makes the wound, the loss, ache more; most of all, though, he aches for Newton; for the other to feel comfortable, because he knows, he knows the biologist doesn’t.

Vinegar splashes as the other pours too fast; splatters onto his glasses and fingers, and Hermann tries not to hurt for him. “Here,” he says, instead, and offers a napkin.

Newt gives a wan, tired smile; the first of the day, so far. “Thanks. Herms,” he says, and sets to cleaning his fingers; rubs, much to Hermann’s consternation, his glasses clean with the hem of his shirt; _some things, it seems, never change,_Hermann thinks with exasperated fondness.

* * *

Hermann celebrates two years with a cake for Newton, store-bought and with garishly bright frosting, sticks two trick candles in it and watches fondly as the other’s face lights up when, a moment after blowing them out, they flicker back, tiny flames leaping and dancing as Newt tries to extinguish them fully.

Finally, though, they’re out, and Newton’s eaten a few pieces of cake as Hermann picks at his own hesitantly, and then Newton bites his lip, reaches into his pocket and slowly withdraws a handheld recorder. “I…this is for you,” he says, quietly, and doesn’t quite meet Hermann’s gaze.

Hermann takes it carefully. “It’s, um,” says Newt, and then pauses. “I—look, just…listen to it.”

Hesitantly, Hermann clicks the button.

For a second, nothing; then, Newton’s voice crackles through; tired, a bit, but determined. “Hermann,” says the recording, “um, I…so, this is for you. I figured I’d record it, because I’m not…I’m not the best at saying what I feel, and I don’t want to fuck it up, so…” he laughs, nervous; there’s the sound of paper against paper, and then: “I thought…I thought, um, since we’re almost at two years since, uh, the—oh, fuck it, I can’t…” he pauses again; sighs.

“Fuck,” he says, a little hysterically, “okay, these papers aren't—” whatever he says next is obscured by the sound of papers crumpling up, and when his voice comes through again, there’s an edge of rawness, there. “I used to think—um, I used to think I’d get a…a rockstar ending, you know; save the world, get the guy…” he trails off with a strained, bitter laugh.

“But, uh—life is complicated, you know, so that didn’t…that didn’t really work out, uh, at first. But, um, I think? I think…maybe it has?” his voice goes high at the end; hesitant and questioning, and Hermann’s eyes sting a bit. “When I was a kid,” Newt continues, “when…when I was a kid, uh, I thought…I thought love was kind of, um, stupid, and, well,” he laughs, “uh, that…yeah, that probably has a history of trauma behind it, but anyway, the point is, um, my dad told me—oh, when I was nine, maybe?—anyway, uh,” he pauses again.

“So, um, I was…so, I don’t…I don’t remember what we were talking about, but he said, ‘Newt, being in love is punk rock’,” he laughs. “And—well, I was a kid, you know; I thought that was stupid, so I laughed, but now…” he trails off; takes a deep breath. “Now, I…I get it, Herms. I love you, and that…you know, the other day, I was talking to my dad, and I mentioned that, um, kind of offhand, and he said that again, and—well, I…it’s different, now. I laugh along, but…but inside, I know it’s true: being in love is totally punk rock.”

He stops; lets out a shaky breath, and then: “Yeah. So, um, you already know this, but…Hermann Gottlieb, I love you; and it’s totally punk rock.”

The recording fades to static, and then cuts out, leaving Hermann and Newton in silence.

“Newton…” Hermann trails off, and the other doesn’t meet his gaze, so he reaches out, places his hand over the biologist’s. “Thank you,” he says, softly, and Newt’s gaze snaps to his; startled.

“What for?” he asks; puzzled.

“For trusting me,” he says, “that…I know that wasn’t easy for you. Thank you, Newton, I…” he draws in a breath. “I love you as well,” he says, firmly, “and—and you’re right; it _is_ punk rock.”

Newton gives him a slightly-watery grin. “It is, isn’t it?” he says, and squeezes Hermann’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
